(Ten Years Later…)

Conner

 

I silently counted my reps on the bench. Three. Two. One. I continued to push through the pain, not caring in the slightest that I was probably shredding my shoulder.

Sitting up, I grabbed my towel from the floor and wiped my face. Just as I was about to turn up the volume on my iPod, Trevor Steele’s shadow hovered over me, patiently waiting for me to acknowledge him. I nodded in greeting.

His chin lifted slightly. “What’s up?”

“Same shit,” I blew out a breath, “different day.”

His mouth turned downward, but not quite forming a frown. He tucked his hands in the pockets of his black sweats and nodded toward the vacant octagon in the center of the gym. “Why don’t you come to the cage tonight?”

I grunted. “Not ready.”

Steele nodded.

I hated, yet fully accepted, the fact he understood. At first, I’d questioned his friendship. The first day I’d walked into the newly built gym, he’d struck up a conversation with me. It took a couple of weeks, but once I figured out he hadn’t wanted anything from me, and that I could trust him, I gave in some.

The sky-high wall of armor I’d built up over the years still very much existed, but he’d chipped away at it a little each day, until one day, I actually laughed. He told me about a fight he’d had before he’d gone pro, where he’d wailed on his opponent until the poor guy’s mother made her way down to the edge of the cage and begged him to stop. I couldn’t imagine. The dude was a grown-ass man.

Steele owned the gym—had saved for nearly five years for it. I respected him and his work ethic. Over time, I’d learned he came from humble beginnings. His father had skipped town, leaving him and his mom to rely on government housing, as she worked two jobs to put food on the table. The only reason he even became interested in martial arts was because a preacher offered free lessons at the local community center. His determination was valiant, and his chill vibes were inviting. It wasn’t hard to be around him, and that was appealing to me.

Not that I’d been looking for a friend, but he thought like I did. Our lives had been so different, yet we were similar at our core. He never asked for anything more than I was willing to share, but was able to draw the correct conclusions when I stayed silent.

“You have to get back out there, man.” He hit his fist on the bar I’d been using. “Blow off some steam, and make a few bucks in the meantime.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I leaned over with my elbows on my thighs to hide my face. “It’s not like I’m getting my hands on any of the money I had prior to the conviction. And I’m not getting any other offers with a felony on my record.”

Steele grimaced. “Still no resolution?”

“Nah.” After being released from prison, I’d contacted my old lawyer, hoping he’d be able to shed some light on my partnership with Jared—who hadn’t contacted me once while I was locked up. Turned out, Jared had dissolved our contract.

Steele whistled through his teeth and shook his head.

I shrugged. “Papers said any money we had would be split fifty-fifty, but there’s nothing to split after he spent all of it. I won’t fight it though. I want nothing more to do with courtrooms or lawyers. I’ve made peace with what my life has become.”

“You don’t miss that life at all?”

I shook my head, thinking about my years spent flipping homes. “Not really. I mean, I couldn’t get a loan now anyways. But coming back to so little, after all the hard work I put in, sucked.”

What little I did have after my release went to a civil lawsuit. I’d only countered twice, before the boy’s mom involved in my accident accepted. I just wanted to be done with it all, naively thinking that settling would give me closure on the whole ordeal. I’d been wrong.

Steele sat down on the bench across from me. “So, you’ll think about it?”

I gulped down some water before answering. “Don’t know yet.”

He smacked my shoulder. “Come on, man.”

“Fact is, I do need an income. The little I had from selling the house is almost shot.”

“See?” Steele brightened. “This is perfect.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to something, other than going to the gym and home. I need to regroup and adapt to my surroundings.” I wiped away the sweat forming on my upper lip. “Get used to being free.”

Free. Simple, yet profound. Symbolic, yet not true. I’d never be free. Not from the memory, and sure as fuck not from the guilt.

“I get it,” Steele said.

I huffed a laugh laced with pain and guilt. “I’ve been off parole for nearly a month, and still don’t know what to do with myself.” I hated how my voice softened with the rising emotions.

Steele clasped his hands between his knees and leaned forward. “How long were you on parole?”

“Two years,” I said. “I met with my PO every week, making sure my paperwork was up to date, then worked eight hours a day at the mission outreach.”

In that time, even though I’d met other guys in the same situation I’d been in, I hadn’t connected with any of them. They all wanted to discuss their situations, almost like therapy sessions. I had no intention of ever talking about it again. It was shitty enough re-playing the accident in my mind every time I closed my eyes. The last thing I wanted to do was relive it with a live audience.

“That should count for something,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “I come to this gym because I’ve got nothing else to do. I tried fixing things in the house I rent. I’ve even cleaned the yard up, and planted a few twigs I dug up from ditches. But nothing calms my nerves like a workout.”

“That’s a good thing,” Steele said with a grin. “I’m the same way.”

I placed my sweatshirt in my bag. “I’ve made too many mistakes, man.”

“We all have. You’re human.”

“No, not normal mistakes.”

“You know we’re cool, yeah? You’re a good dude, Conner.”

“I don’t think you understand. I was partying one night and hit a kid head on,” I said, deliberately trying to scare him away. “I killed him.” He knew I’d been locked up, but he hadn’t known the reason.

He crossed his arms and tilted his head down. I never looked away, willing him to meet my stare. Deep down, I hoped it wouldn’t change his view of my character, but at the same time, I knew I didn’t deserve the free pass.

He looked back at me, silent for a few moments. “That really sucks. I’m sorry you experienced that.”

“It is what it is. I drove impaired nearly every day for years; even before I could legally drink.” I shook my head. “But I can’t fix what happened. I can’t fix anything.” I zipped my bag, completely over the confession. It didn’t matter anyhow.

“No, you can’t fix everything, you’re right. But you can take what time you have left here and do something positive with it. People make mistakes, man. You made one.”

I rolled my eyes, not meaning to be disrespectful, but I’d made a hell of a lot more than one.

He stood at the same time I did, knowing I was leaving. “It was a mistake that will affect you for the rest of your life, but there are ways to deal with tragedies, while still living a life worth living. Don’t quit. Don’t give up on your life like that. There is a reason you’re still here. Don’t waste it. I mean it. You have potential, Conner. Even if you don’t want to do this forever, fighting is an outlet for you, and you’re good at it. Do something with the opportunity.”

I huffed a breath. “I’ll think about it.”

Steele nodded in victory and slapped my shoulder on his way toward the back of the room.

 

***

 

Four weeks later, I entered the cage for the first time. Overcome with an emotion I still couldn’t pin down, I felt like I was soaring with every punch landed. My insides rolled, exhilaration oozed from my pores. It was as if my body had duplicated, one hovered above, floating, while the other, feet firmly planted on the ground, physically endured the fight. It was a complete out-of-body experience.

I’d sparred with Steele multiple times in the past, but nothing compared to going all out in a bout. I found release in it. My body relaxed, even though I was tense. My mind calmed, almost to the point where I wasn’t thinking at all. I’d never experienced anything like it before. Once I found a flow, a passion developed for the sport—for something other than drowning my sorrows, or longing to feel numb. It was something I could put all my energy into. Something positive for a change.

I spat blood onto the mat, then licked my sticky lips. The initial shock energized me. Warmth flowed through my body, as tingles shot from the top of my head, down to my bare feet. I stood still, allowing the adrenaline to seep through my veins like a junkie in an alleyway. In the middle of letting someone knock my insides around, I was at my calmest. Tranquil, despite the intense concentration I had on my opponent.

I grinned at Kramer’s dumbfounded expression, and the split skin stung. The pain—an agony that demanded to be felt. Every punch, every kick, every bruise, only added to the euphoria I had.

I’d initially been in the mood to go a few rounds with Kramer, but the longer I had to look at his face, the more he pissed me off. I lurched forward, giving him the full-fledged power of my Superman punch. I hadn’t trained much for the fight, knowing I could make him tap within the first three minutes if I’d wanted to.

His feet were heavy; his stance upright. He was cocky for no reason. It made me think he was a nutcase. Not like me. No, crazier than me, because at the end of the day, I was good at fighting. He was getting into cages with fighters who could kill him. He was an idiot. Certifiable. And I had zero tolerance for him.

The fact that I had to fight him in the first place annoyed me. I’d wanted a challenge, one that would push my adrenaline over the edge and exhaust me. The unlucky son-of-a-bitch who was pulling money tonight would be pissed. They’d already talked to me last week about drawing it out for the crowd. Ticket sales would go down, if the crowd didn’t feel they were getting their money’s worth. Even though Steele allowed the fights to take place in his gym, he steered clear of the money being exchanged; that way, his hands were clean if word ever got out to the pro league.

I turned my back to the crowd, when the referee took my arm, raising it high in the air, signaling I’d won. As if anyone watching the fight needed someone to tell them who’d won. I’d knocked his ass out. Everyone witnessed it. Why did I have to stand there like a fucking movie star, when everyone cheered me on like my life would end if they didn’t? I despised the empty appreciation. I hadn’t cured cancer. I hadn’t captured America’s Most Wanted. I’d simply punched someone so hard, he’d fallen like a ton of bricks onto a mat.

“Hell yeah, man! I’ve never seen a Superman punch so fluid in my life. You nailed that son-of-a-bitch. Even if Lopez were here watching, he’d never be ready for you next week. No amount of scouting will prepare him for that.” Steele slapped me on the shoulder, already looking ahead to my next fight.

I blew out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I needed to get out. I had the sudden urge of flight; my anxious energy surging on the inside, bubbling at my core, preparing to explode. “Thanks. I’m going to head out. You need anything?”

His brow furrowed at my nonchalance. It wasn’t that I was trying to be a dick, quite the contrary. I’d deliberately kept my response short, not wanting to express the growth of my anxiety. My pulse thrummed double time as my heart rate sped up, and my mind raced with thoughts of consumption. I didn’t want Steele to know I cared more about numbing myself than I did celebrating a win with him.

I pulled my sweatpants on over my shorts, thinking about how a whiskey would burn going down. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop the soft whisper. Instant gratification was a mind-fuck. Because the second that instant was gone, shame and disappointment would flood the void. For me to have such will-power physically, I was a pussy mentally. Giving in to the impulse made me feel weak. My brain never rested. The desire was always there, pushing and pulling, keeping me off balance. There was never a day where I didn’t feel compelled to do it—to give in to the urge.